


After the Fight

by ceywoozle



Series: The Great Sherlock RP Game [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry Sex, Dirty Talk, John's pissed off, M/M, Minor Angst, So yay!, Wall Sex, and they have sex in the end, but nothing major
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2014-06-27
Packaged: 2018-02-06 12:02:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1857312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceywoozle/pseuds/ceywoozle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They fight. John gets mad. Sherlock has no respect for anyone's privacy. All the sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the Fight

The door slamming behind John is a relief, a barrier, solid and palpable between Sherlock and the rage that is surrounding him. He is wearing it like an extra set of clothes, a solid barrier between him and the world. John can't believe how angry he is.

A woman coming towards him steps hurriedly out of his way and he knows he should calm down, but it's dark now and London's night works only to fuel the adrenaline, make his heart pound faster. The sidewalk is vanishing beneath him but he has no idea where it's taking him. He is completely incapable of controlling his own actions at the moment, a divide between his brain and his body. A concrete barrier and he can see the road disappearing on the other side, visible but wholly outside of his reach.

He strides around a corner, walking straight into a man and for the briefest second he can see the sudden irritation leap in the stranger's face before it dies and the man backs hurriedly away, hands in the air, utterly disarming. John doesn't acknowledge him, walks on, half wishing for something to happen. A pickpocket, a housebreaker, a murder, fucking Moriarty. He doesn't care. He needs to feel flesh under his hands, moulding to the anger of his grip. He needs to feel bone and muscle and know that they are totally under his control.

Sherlock. _Bloody fucking Sherlock._ John doesn't know how to explain this. How to make him understand. He doesn't even know if Sherlock is _capable_ of understanding. Those two years lay perpetually between them. Perhaps will always lay between them. Every day John wishing he knew why it happened. Wishing he knew how he could ever stop it from happening again. More than half terrified that that option is not and never will be in his power, regardless of what Sherlock says, regardless of what Sherlock thinks. John is terrified and he doesn't know how to explain that.

He doesn't know how to explain that every single time he looks up to see Sherlock sitting across from him it's still a miracle, a fact that still leaves him momentarily breathless with surprise. He doesn't know how to explain to him that those eight hundred and forty-seven days when he thought Sherlock was dead still rise up to threaten him with their terror, at any moment, at any time. How that memory will come flooding back and he will stand there, staring vacantly in the mirror at his reflection while the world falls down around his ears and he has no way to stop it at all. He has no idea how to tell him that when he has nightmares now, it's of a pale face streaked with blood that he can't even touch, no matter how hard he tries to reach and that never, never is there any coming back from it. He doesn't know how to say that his own voice, the echo of it a constant litany at the back of his head—three syllables that have taken over his life, _you machine you machine you machine—_ has still not left him with a moment's peace since that day, years ago, lifetimes ago, an unending nightmare that John still isn't quite convinced he's woken up from.

He thinks of Sherlock now, that black head sticky with sweat, heady with the scent of sex, and he wishes that image could eradicate everything else. That the sound of Sherlock's voice in his ear, telling him how much he loves him as he wraps his limbs around him, could someday override the endless loop of Sherlock's broken voice telling him goodbye from a place that John can't get to.

And yes, he's forgiven him. He will always forgive Sherlock everything. But that doesn't mean he's been able to forget. It doesn't mean he'll ever be able to forget and it doesn't mean he will ever stop being afraid of it happening again. It doesn't mean he will ever be okay with it, because it is unlikely that Sherlock, for all his genius, for all his brilliance, will ever understand. That this...this is something that cannot be fixed or erased or forgotten, however much they both wish it could. The most that John can ever hope for is that one day the wound will scab over and that the scarred flesh, white and shiny and smooth, will finally grow numb.

And just like that the is anger is gone, swept aside by the familiar fear, a low ache of panic that will never go away, and John looks up to find that he is standing in a street he swore he'd never go down again. He stares at the hospital, at the roof, and he swears to God that the world actuall shifts underneath him.

He stumbles, in a clear street, standing still. He can feel the long flash of pain in his leg and he has a single moment of frustrated dread before he feels himself start to fall, knowing there's not a thing he can do to stop it.

And then suddenly there is a hand, two hands. There is a body and two arms and he collapses into them and he has a brief moment when he wishes it were Sherlock, that this is just another dream, that their roles have been reversed and this time it's Sherlock catching him and finally managing to save him.

“Careful there, mate,” says a voice at his ear and it is not Sherlock, but John instantly knows it anyway, and immediately every sense is on alert.

“Ever get that ASBO, then?” he says.

There is the slightest pause, one that John would never have noticed if those arms weren't even then helping him to regain a balance that was lost on the day he had last seen this boy. But it only lasts a second, then those arms are pushing him to his feet and the figure, hood pulled low over his face, is turning away.

“Sorry, mate, don't know what you're talking about,” the kid says and John feels a vindictive pleasure in the way those shoulders have hunched in wary defence as he strides away.

John watches him go, and as he does he begins to realise the full significance of that boy, here in this place, right at this moment. He feels the the slow rise of anger starting to return but he checks it, forces himself to keep it in rein because he doesn't _know_ yet. It could very well just be chance.

He starts to walk again, deliberately this time, fully conscious of the direction he is taking. Back to Baker Street. And as he does he keeps his head turned down but this time he is aware. This time he is paying attention.

It starts with a woman, and it's been years but something about her appearance niggles at the back of his mind and he thinks he knows where he's seen her before, years ago by the Thames, clutching a fifty pound note.

He sees three more figures on the two mile walk home, but they don't seem familiar at all, and part of him is trying to convince himself otherwise, trying to tell him that this is all his imagination, when suddenly half a block ahead, only six blocks from Baker Street, he sees a figure that he instantly recognises. Tall and gangly, phone pressed against his face. Even with his back turned John knows who that is.

“Wiggins!”

The figure freezes. It is instantaneous. And before John can even think about giving chase Wiggins leaps into a sprint and vanishes in the space between two buildings.

John doesn't bother to try and catch him. He's certain now. He knows everything he needs to know. And just like that his rage, his anger, the rush of his blood running too hot under his skin, is leaping up and taking over.

He is six blocks away but he barely notices them passing. Doesn't even bother acknowledging the way the CCTV cameras swing round to follow his steps. He is enraged and when he reaches the black door, key shaking in his unsteady hand, the force with which he slams it back against the wall sends a long ominous crack running through it.

He is vaguely aware of Mrs Hudson's voice chasing him up the stairs but it's unimportant, so utterly inconsequential. Every one of the seventeen steps that pass underneath him feels endless because he is so close, Sherlock is right there, and as he pushes his way into the sitting room, it is to find Sherlock dropping his phone guiltily in his pocket, his face defiant and sullen but his eyes unable to meet John's own.

John doesn't speak. Sherlock is aware, completely aware of what he's done. He fusses with the sleeve of his dressing gown and clears his throat awkwardly.

“John. I know what you're going to say.”

John doesn't. John has no idea what he's going to say. How he's ever going to get through to this man. He doesn't even know what he's angry about anymore because all the rage, all the fear, all the panic has risen to a single crescendo in which they each become indistinguishable from the other, and because he doesn't know what he's going to say, he strides suddenly forward instead.

He sees the momentary panic flicker across Sherlock's face, the brief raising of hands in a defensive gesture, but it's too late, too little warning. John is there and without a word he has Sherlock's head between his hands and he is kissing him.

It is a war, a battle. There is nothing of tenderness in the act, nothing gentle. It is a gesture filled with rage, filled with fear, filled with everything he will never be able to explain, everything that Sherlock will never understand. He feels the tender flesh of Sherlock's lips break beneath the angry snap of his teeth and he tastes blood. He hears the breathless whimper of Sherlock, unfighting beneath him. He is pushing him back and Sherlock is going with him, letting him, folding in under the savagery of John's embrace, and when they hit the wall he opens his eyes only long enough to see Sherlock open-mouthed and panting, his eyes wide and his face flushed and there is wonder in that look, amazement and joy and fierce, fierce need. And in that instant John forgives him all over again.

“John,” Sherlock says, just his name, before John's mouth swallows his voice again, consuming him, his lips, his tongue, his breath. He is pressed full length against Sherlock and he can feel the hard line of Sherlock's cock pressed against his belly, he can feel the ache of his own slotted along Sherlock's thigh. Sherlock is whimpering again and John can feel the involuntary movements of his hips and abruptly he pulls away because he refuses to allow that, he refuses to give Sherlock that satisfaction, and the angry flare of vindication he feels when Sherlock cries out at the loss makes him grin, a savage, vengeful thing.

He is hard. He is so hard and he wants. He has never felt it like this before, this measure of need, this intensity of possession. Sherlock is flushed and half falling against the wall and his breath is coming out in stuttered whines. His eyes are heavy and half closed and the front of his sleep trousers are tented and John knows that he owns every inch of this man, just like he himself is owned, and with a snarl he reaches over and grasps Sherlock by the arms and he turns him roughly around.

Sherlock makes a noise of surprise but he doesn't fight the movement. He is limp, completely unresisting, and John doesn't give him a chance before he is on him again, hands gripping at the dressing gown and tearing it from his arms, fingers seeking the edge of trousers and pants and dragging them down so that Sherlock stands before him, pale legs spread on the floor, his face and hands against the wall, his arse bare and seeking towards John.

John leaves him like that, turns around and walks away, heading to the kitchen and down the hall and to the bedroom where the bottle of lube stands on the bedside table and he picks it up, striding back into the sitting room and when he gets there Sherlock hasn't moved. He is beautiful, even like this. _Especially_ like this. But John doesn't have the patience, not now. Right now he doesn't care about Sherlock's beauty, about his genius. All he cares about is that he is _his,_ that that will _never_ change, and there is nothing, _nothing_ that will stop him from holding onto that with everything that is in him.

He can hear Sherlock's breath from here, can see the stuttered rise of shoulder as lungs drag shallowly at the suddenly stifled air. John goes to him and Sherlock, his eyes closed tightly against the wall, gives a cry and jumps as John puts his hand on the offered crease of the arse before him. His fingers part the two cheeks and without the lube he is already seeking, looking for the heat of that spot that he has come to know so well and as the tip of his finger finds it Sherlock pushes suddenly back and gives a breathless cry.

“Yes. Yes. John, God, yes yes yes. I love you. I love you. I'm sorry. John. Oh God, yes.”

John presses at that opening, his finger dry but it is so satisfying, so gratifying to see the way Sherlock's hips flutter against the intrusion of his hand, the way he presses back and begs for more and John knows that what he's doing now is the product of rage, of frustration, that he would never normally want this over the feeling of Sherlock deep inside him, fucking him endlessly, with his cock, with the army of toys he's collected, filling him and marking him and telling him how beautiful he is when he begs. But for now this is what he needs, this is what Sherlock needs, and he is more than willing to give it to them both.

He doesn't undress. He undoes his belt, the button of his jeans, the flies without taking his hand from Sherlock's entrance, and only after he's pushed them below his hips, his cock jutting hard into the space between them, already looking for the relief of Sherlock's body, does he move his hand away and the sound that Sherlock makes takes his breath away with want.

_“John!”_

“I'm going to fuck you. Jesus Christ, I'm going to fuck you so hard. Do you know how fucking angry you make me. Do you understand how fucking hard you make this, how hard you make me? I'm going to come in you, Sherlock. You are mine. You are fucking mine and you _do not_ pull this shit on me. Do you understand?”

“Yes. Yes. Please. I understand. John, please.”

And Sherlock begging is nothing John's ever heard before. He wants this, so intensely. He feels like he's compacted into something else, an organism of want, solid and dark and dense. There is nothing like John Watson in this being that is now opening the lube cap, squirting it into his hand and coating his own cock. There is nothing of John Watson in the finger that slides inexorably up Sherlock's needy hole, thrusting in first one, then two, then three, while Sherlock sobs and pants, his face and hands pressed up against the wall, his legs spread open on the floor.

When John removes his fingers it is only to replace them with his cock and he doesn't go slowly, he doesn't give an inch of mercy, pushing in with an animal growl and a savagery that is only exasperated by the way Sherlock shouts his name like some kind of prayer.

There is no going slowly. John fucks him, thrusting all the way in and pulling all the way out. There is nothing tender in this, no gentle meeting of lovers. He is some subset of instinct, less than an animal. There is nothing to him but his want and the way his cock pushes far into Sherlock's body, taking over and filling him, over and over again while Sherlock keens and begs with his fingers spread in claws against the wall.

He is pleading now, his voice a cry for mercy and John can feel his own climax approaching, the lack of control beginning to make his hips stutter.

“Please, please, please John, please, let me come, let me come, John please.”

“You think you deserve to come?” John snarls. He is panting, he can barely breath, barely speak. “You think you deserve anything but my cock buried in your ass? Filling you with my come? Maybe I'll plug you after. You can see how it feels, always open, waiting for me to fuck you whenever I want. Maybe I'll put a ring on you.” He reaches around, circles his fingers around Sherlock's cock. “Keep you wanting the whole day, fucking you over and over until you're spilling over and you can't hold any more.” He moves his fingers, sliding his hand up and down that shaft, slippery with precome, hard and hot and wet under his palm. “Is that what you want?” he demands and he's fucking Sherlock on both ends now, his cock thrusting wildly in and out of that hot hole and his hand sliding frantically over his long cock. “Do you want to know how that feels, Sherlock, to be filled with come all day, just waiting for the moment when you'll finally be allowed to come?”

_“John!”_

And John feels the sudden convulsion that Sherlock gives, the desperate plea in his name, and Sherlock is coming, streaming around John's fingers, and John holds him, holds him through it even as his own hips jerk suddenly forward and he is coming too, pumping deep into the body before him, filling him and marking him and owning him completely.

And John has no idea how, but he is suddenly crying, sobbing into Sherlock's back. He feels tears mingling with the sweat on his face and he is thinking of eight hundred and forty-seven days without this man, never knowing that he would ever have him back.

“John,” Sherlock gasps against the wall, and John doesn't even try to catch him as he falls, sliding downwards where his knees thud against the hardwood and John is following him down, folding in around him before they both slide sideways, lying together on the floor, Sherlock twisting around and his limbs coming up to surround John, to encase him completely and John is crying, shaking in Sherlock's arms because he will never be able to live without this again. He will not be able to learn how to survive another time.

“John. John. Shh. Love, baby, please. I'm here. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. I'm not leaving you. I will never leave you again. John. I swear. I swear. I love you. I love you.”

And slowly, slowly, that knot inside John begins to ease, the dread coming gradually undone, the terror syphoning gently away, the rage vanishing completely, and John lies shaking in Sherlock's arms while the world slowly pieces itself back together.

 


End file.
